953 


MS    DhD 


LIZETTE 

WOODWORTH 

REESE 

A  BRANCH  OF  MAY 

Mdccccix 


•  BRKELE  Y 

LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY     OF 
CALIFORNIA 


L, 


/ 


10    t 


A  BRANCH  OF  MAY 


REPLACING 


COPYRIGHT 

LIZETTE  WOODWORTH   REESE 
1887 


Jr 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

BETRAYED 3 

THE   DESERTED   HOUSE     .           .  4 

A   SONG 6 

HALLOWMAS      .                     ...  7 

A  SPINNING  SONG     ....  8 

MY   TRUE   LOVE   LIES   ASLEEP            .  10 
ANNE             ....                     .11 

A  WET  JUNE  DAY    .  13 

THE  OLD   PATH          ....  14 

A  SONG   FOR   CANDLEMAS        .          .  15 

SUNRISE       .  16 

KEATS         .                               ...  17 

A  THOUGHT  OF   MAY      .                     .  18 

COUPLETS             .  19 

A   DECEMBER   ROSE   .  20 

A  SONG       .  21 

MID-MARCH 22 

THE  SINGER 23 

SWEET   WEATHER  25 


M8(>75G9 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

IN  JUNE      ......  26 

AFTER  THE  RAIN     ....  28 

A   RHYME   OF   DEATH'S   INN     .           .  29 

THE  DEATH   POTION         ...  30 

BLACKBERRY  BLOSSOMS  ...  33 

SUNSET 34 

THE  DEAD  SHIP         ....  35 

A  RHYME  FOR  JUNE         ...  37 

AUGUST 38 

EARLY  SEPTEMBER            ...  39 

A  NOVEMBER   AFTERNOON      .          .  40 

THE  FIRST  SNOW      ....  41 

TO   HER   SWEET  EYES  42 


VI 


A  BRANCH  OF  MAY 


Another  rhymer  ?    quoth  the  World. 
Faith,  these  folk  be  mad  ! 


BETRAYED 


HE  is  false,  O  Death,  she  is  fair ! 

Let  me  hide  my  head  on  thy  knee ; 
Blind  mine  eyes,  dull  mine  ears,  O  Death  ! 

She  hath  broke  my  heart  for  me  ! 


Give  me  a  perfect  dream ; 

Find  me  a  rare,  dim  place ; 
But  let  not  her  voice  come  nigh, 

And  keep  out  her  face  —  her  face  ! 


THE  DESERTED   HOUSE 


""^HE  old  house  stands  deserted,  gray, 

With  sharpened  gables  high  in  air, 
And  deep-set  lattices,  all  gay 

With  massive  arch  and  framework  rare  ; 
And  o'er  it  is  a  silence  laid, 
That  feeling,  one  grows  sore  afraid. 

The  eaves  are  dark  with  heavy  vines  ; 

The  steep  roof  wears  a  coat  of  moss  ; 
The  walls  are  touched  with  dim  designs 

Of  shadows  moving  slow  across  ; 
The  balconies  are  damp  with  weeds, 
Lifting  as  close  as  streamside  reeds. 

The  garden  is  a  loved  retreat 

Of  melancholy  flowers,  of  lone 
And  wild-mouthed  herbs,  in  companies  sweet, 

'Mid  desolate  green  grasses  thrown; 
And  in  its  gaps  the  hoar  stone  wall 
Lets  sprays  of  tangled  ivy  fall. 

The  pebbled  paths  drag,  here  and  there, 

Old  lichened  faces,  overspun 
With  silver  spider-threads  —  they  wear 

A  silence  sad  to  look  upon  : 


It  is  so  long  since  happy  feet 

Made  them  to  thrill  with  pressure  sweet. 

'Mid  drear  but  fragrant  shrubs  there  stands 
A  saint  of  old  made  mute  in  stone, 

With  tender  eyes  and  yearning  hands, 
And  mouth  formed  in  a  sorrow  lone; 

'Tis  thick  with  dust,  as  long  ago 

'Twas  thick  with  fairest  blooms  that  grow. 

Swallows  are  whirring  here  and  there; 

And  oft  a  little  soft  wind  blows 
A  hundred  odors  down  the  air; 

The  bees  hum  'round  the  red,  last  rose ; 
And  ceaselessly  the  crickets  shrill 
Their  tunes,  and  yet,  it  seems  so  still. 

Or  else,  from  out  the  distance  steals, 
Half  heard,  the  tramp  of  horses,  or 

The  bleak  and  harsh  stir  of  slow  wheels 
Bound  cityward ;  but  more  and  more, 

As  these  are  hushed,  or  yet  increase, 

About  the  old  house  clings  its  peace. 


A  SONG 

THE  year 's  a  little  older  grown; 
And  fair  white  boughs  by  green  ways  blown 
In  these  new  days  are  no  more  known. 
(  Oh,  who  can  bring  the  May  again  ? ) 

And  we  are  wiser  grown,  we  two. 
Our  story  's  told  ;  each  word  was  true  ; 
And  you  love  me,  and  I  love  you. 

(Oh,  who  can  bring  the  May  again?) 
Was  it  not  sweeter  ere  we  knew  ? 
Yet  who  can  bring  the  May  again  ? 


HALLOWMAS 

X/'OU  know,  the  year  's  not  always  May  — 
•*•       Oh,  once  the  lilacs  were  ablow  ! 

( In  truth,  not  very  long  ago), 
But  now,  dead  leaves  drop  down  the  way. 

But  now,  chrysanthemums  are  gay, 
And  some  last  roses  redly  glow. 

You  know,  the  year' s  not  always  May  — 
Oh,  once  the  lilacs  were  ablow  ! 

These  be  the  days,  this  weather  gray, 
We  think  of  those  we  loved  so ; 
Sweet  souls,  who  heard  Death  calling  low, 

And  followed  him  from  dark  to  day. 

You  know,  the  year  's  not  always  May. 


A  SPINNING  SONG 

TTOW  many  lilies  be  ablow? 
•*•          Count  them  and  see  — 
Seven  by  the  wall,  and  seven  by  the  door ; 
'Tis  time  he  came  to  me. 
Oh,  love  's  bitter  ! 

Was  ever  a  whiter  web  than  this 

That  I  spin  to-day  ? 
A  wedding  gown  or  a  winding  sheet, 

Love,  which  shall  it  be  ? 
Oh,  love  's  bitter  ! 

The  old  dames  stand  in  the  street, 

'Neath  the  willow  trees  ; 
And  they  mark  how  white  my  lilies  blow, 

And  they  hear  my  bees. 
Oh,  love  's  bitter ! 

And  one  dame  says,  "  Five  lads  of  mine 

Be  in  the  sea ;  " 
Another  says,  "  That  lad  of  mine, 

He  came  not  back  to  me." 
Oh,  love  's  bitter  ! 

The  willow  trees  grow  down  to  the  wharves, 
Green  as  of  old  ; 

8 


(  Green  as  the  day  he  went  from  me ; ) 
The  sea  is  of  gold. 

Oh,  love  's  bitter  ! 

Two  ships  I  see :  one  in  the  west  — 

Love,  is  it  thine  ? 
One  in  the  east,  in  a  windy  mist  — 

Oh,  love,  which  is  thine  ? 
Oh,  love  's  bitter  ! 

Then  speak  the  dames  :  "  Her  ship  went  down 

That  night  at  sea." 
My  seven  white  lilies  —  do  ye  hear? 

For  this  they  speak  of  me  ! 
Oh,  love  's  bitter  ! 


MY  TRUE  LOVE  LIES  ASLEEP 

MY  true  love  lies  asleep 
In  some  most  heavenly  place ; 
She  hath  a  lily  in  her  hand, 
A  smile  upon  her  face. 

The  dear  white  roses  come 
And  climb  about  her  there ; 

The  sweetest  winds  you  ever  heard 
Go  singing  down  the  air. 

The  roses  climb  so  high ; 

The  grasses  grow  so  deep  ; 
You  cannot  see  her  where  she  lies, 

A-smiling  in  her  sleep. 


10 


ANNE 
(SUDBURY  MEETING-HOUSE,    1653) 

1_TER  eyes  be  like  the  violets, 
•*•  Ablow  in  Sudbury  lane  ; 
When  she  doth  smile,  her  face  is  sweet 

As  blossoms  after  rain ; 
With  grief  I  think  of  my  gray  hairs, 

And  wish  me  young  again. 

In  comes  she  through  the  dark  old  door 

Upon  this  Sabbath  day  ; 
And  she  doth  bring  the  tender  wind 

That  sings  in  bush  and  tree ; 
And  hints  of  all  the  apple  boughs 

That  kissed  her  by  the  way. 

Our  parson  stands  up  straight  and  tall, 

For  our  dear  souls  to  pray, 
And  of  the  place  where  sinners  go, 

Some  grewsome  things  doth  say ; 
Now,  she  is  highest  Heaven  to  me ; 

So  Hell  is  far  away. 

Most  stiff  and  still  the  good  folk  sit 
To  hear  the  sermon  through ; 

11 


But  if  our  God  be  such  a  God, 
And  if  these  things  be  true, 

Why  did  He  make  her  then  so  fair, 
And  both  her  eyes  so  blue  ? 

A  flickering  light,  the  sun  creeps  in, 
And  finds  her  sitting  there ; 

And  touches  soft  her  lilac  gown, 
And  soft  her  yellow  hair ; 

I  look  across  to  that  old  pew, 
And  have  both  praise  and  prayer. 

Oh,  violets  in  Sudbury  lane, 

Amid  the  grasses  green, 
This  maid  who  stirs  ye  with  her  feet 

Is  far  more  fair,  I  ween  ! 
I  wonder  how  my  forty  years 

Look  by  her  sweet  sixteen  ! 


12 


A  WET  JUNE  DAY 

SCENTS,  sounds  as  of  November  fill  the  air ; 
Of  myriad  blossoms  down  wet  pathways  strown, 
Of  ragged  leaves  off  steaming  branches  blown 
And  dropped  into  dank  hollows  here  and  there. 
Keen  little  gusts  go  whirling  through  the  hush, 
Driving  the  mist  before  them  up  the  lane. 
And  lo,  the  lovely  world  grows  ours  again ! 
The  orchard  fences,  the  one  elder  bush, 
Prone  with  its  white  face  in  the  thick  drenched  grass, 
The  rows  of  apple  trees,  gnarled,  dripping,  sweet, 
The  highway  with  its  pools  agleam  like  glass ; 
Then,  as  still  speeds  the  mist  on  shining  feet, 
Meadow,  and  wood,  peaked  roofs  —  beyond 

them  shows 
A  windy  west,  the  color  of  a  rose. 


13 


THE  OLD  PATH 

,  love  !     Oh,  love  !  this  way  has  hints  of  yoi 
In  every  bough  that  stirs,  in  every  bee, 

Yellow  and  glad,  droning  the  thick  grass  through ; 

In  blooms  red  on  the  bush,  white  on  the  tree : 

And  when  the  wind,  just  now,  came  soft  and  fleet, 

Scattering  the  blackberry  blossoms,  and  from  some 

Fast  darkening  space  that  thrush  sang  sudden  sweet. 

You  were  so  near,  so  near,  yet  did  not  come  ! 

Say,  is  it  thus  with  you,  oh,  friend,  this  day  ? 

Have  you,  for  me  that  love  you,  thought  or  word? 

Do  I,  with  bud  or  bough,  pass  by  your  way ; 

With  any  breath  of  brier,  or  note  of  bird  ? 

If  this  I  knew,  though  you  be  quick  or  dead, 

All  my  sad  life  would  I  go  comforted. 


14 


A  SONG  FOR  CANDLEMAS 

"^HERE  'S  never  a  rose  upon  the  bush, 
-*•        And  never  a  bud  on  any  tree ; 
In  wood  and  field  nor  hint  nor  sign 

Of  one  green  thing  for  you  or  me. 
Come  in,  come. in,  sweet  love  of  mine, 
And  let  the  bitter  weather  be ! 

Coated  with  ice  the  garden  wall ; 

The  river  reeds  are  stark  and  still ; 
The  wind  goes  plunging  to  the  sea, 

And  last  week's  flakes  the  hollows  fill. 
Come  in,  come  in,  sweet  love  to  me, 

And  let  the  year  blow  as  it  will  ! 


15 


SUNRISE 

'  I  VHE  east  is  yellow  as  a  daffodil. 

Three    steeples  —  three    stark  swarthy 

arms  —  are  thrust 

Up  from  the  town.     The  gnarled  poplars  thrill 
Down  the  long  street  in  some  keen  salty  gust  — 
Straight  from  the  sea  and  all  the  sailing  ships  — 
Turn  white,  black,  white  again,  with  noises  sweet 
And  swift.    Back  to  the  night  the  last  star  slips. 
High  up  the  air  is  motionless,  a  sheet 
Of  light.     The  east  grows  yellower  apace, 
And  trembles  :  then,  once  more,  and  suddenly, 
The  salt  wind  blows,  and  in  that  moment's  space 
Flame  roofs,  and  poplar-tops,  and  steeples  three; 
From  out  the  mist  that  wraps  the  river-ways, 
The  little  boats,  like  torches,  start  ablaze. 


16 


KEATS 

T^LUTING  and  singing,  with  young  locks  aflow, 
-**     This  lad,  forsooth,  down  the  long  years  should 

pass, 
With  scent  of  blooms,  with  daffodils  arow, 

Lighting  their  candles  in  the  April  grass. 
Ah,  'tis  not  thus  he  comes  to  us,  but  sweet 

With  youth  and  sorrows  !     When  we  speak 

his  name, 
Lo,  the  old  house  in  the  old  foreign  street, 

His  broken  voice  lamenting  that  his  fame 
(Alack,  he  knew  not ! )  passing  fleet  would  be  ! 

He  grieves  us  with  his  melancholy  eyes. 
Yet  are  all  weathers  sweeter  for  that  he 

Did  sing.     Deep  in  the  Roman  dust  he  lies. 
How  since  he  died  the  century  hath  sped  !  — 
And  they  that  mocked  him,  yea,  they  too  are  dead. 


17 


A  THOUGHT  OF  MAY 

A  LL  that  long,  mad  March  day,  in  the  dull  town 
*•*•     I  had  a  thought  of  May  —  alas,  alas  ! 
The  dogwood  boughs  made  whiteness  up  and  down 

The  daffodils  were  burning  in  the  grass ; 
And  there  were  bees  astir  in  lane  and  street, 

And  scent  of  lilacs  blowing  tall  and  lush ; 
While  hey,  the  wind,  that  pitched  its  voice  so  sweet 

It  seemed  an  angel  talked  behind  each  bush  ! 
The  west  grew  very  golden,  roofs  turned  black. 

I  saw  one  star  above  the  gables  bare. 
The  door  flew  open.     Love,  you  had  come  back. 

I  held  my  arms ;  you  found  the  old  way  there. 
In  its  old  place  you  laid  your  yellow  head, 

And  at  your  kiss  the  mad  March  weather  fled  ! 


18 


DOUBT 

REEDS  grow  so  thick  along  the  way, 
Their  boughs  hide  God ;  I  cannot  pray. 


~^ 


TRUTH 

old  faiths  light  their  candles  all  about. 
But  burly  Truth  comes  by  and  blows 
them  out. 


19 


A  DECEMBER  ROSE 

A    ROSE  is  a  rose  all  times  of  the  year. 
-^  ^     I  have  one  out  in  my  garden  there, 
In  the  deep  grass  out  by  the  gray  old  stair  - 
A  breath  of  June  in  December  drear. 

Ah,  but  its  red  is  a  little  sere, 
And  nipped  by  the  frost  in  last  night's  air ! 
A  rose  is  a  rose  all  times  of  the  year. 
I  have  one  out  in  my  garden  there. 

So,  when  Love  comes,  he  is  counted  dear, 
With  his  reed  at  his  lips,  in  June-tide  fair, 
A-piping  sweet,  or  with  wind-blown  hair, 
And  tears  in  his  eyes  in  December  drear. 
A  rose  is  a  rose  all  times  of  the  year. 


20 


A  SONG 

LOVE,  he  went  a-straying, 

A  long  time  ago  ! 
I  missed  him  in  the  Maying, 

When  blossoms  were  of  snow ; 
So  back  I  came  by  the  old  sweet  way ; 

And  for  I  loved  him  so, 
I  wept  that  he  came  not  with  me, 
A  long  time  ago  ! 

Wide  open  stood  my  chamber  door, 

And  one  stepped  forth  to  greet; 
Gray  Grief,  strange  Grief,  who  turned  me  sore 

With  words  he  spake  so  sweet. 
I  gave  him  meat ;  I  gave  him  drink ; 

(And  listened  for  Love's  feet). 
How  many  years?  I  cannot  think; 

In  truth,  I  do  not  know  — 

A  long  time  ago  ! 

O  Love,  he  came  not  back  again, 

Although  I  kept  me  fair; 
And  each  white  May,  in  field  and  lane, 

I  waited  for  him  there  ! 
Yea,  he  forgot ;  but  Grief  stayed  on, 

And  in  Love's  empty  chair 
Doth  sit  and  tell  of  days  long  gone  — 

'Tis  more  than  I  can  bear ! 

21 


MID-MARCH 

TT  is  too  early  for  white  boughs,  too  late 

*••     For  snows.     From  out  the  hedge  the  wind  lets  fa 

A  few  last  flakes,  ragged  and  delicate. 

Down  the  stripped  roads  the  maples  start  their  small, 

Soft,  'wildering  fires.     Stained  are  the  meadow  stalks 

A  rich  and  deepening  red.     The  willow  tree 

Is  woolly.     In  deserted  garden-walks 

The  lean  bush  crouching  hints  old  royalty, 

Feels  some  June  stir  in  the  sharp  air  and  knows 

Soon  'twill  leap  up  and  show  the  world  a  rose. 

The  days  go  out  with  shouting ;  nights  are  loud  ; 
Wild,  warring  shapes  the  wood  lifts  in  the  cold  ; 
The  moon's  a  sword  of  keen,  barbaric  gold, 
Plunged  to  the  hilt  into  a  pitch  black  cloud. 


22 


THE  SINGER 

VI7ITH  spices,  wines  and  silken  stuffs, 

The  stout  ship  sailed  down, 
And  with  the  ship  the  singer  came 
Unto  the  old  sea  town. 

"  Peace  to  ye  !  "  quoth  the  sailor  folk, 
"  A  month  and  more  have  we 

Been  listening  to  his  songs.     Ah,  God  ! 
None  sings  so  sweet  as  he/' 

Up  from  the  wharves  the  salt  wind  blew. 
And  filled  the  steep  highway; 

Seven  slender  plum  trees  caught  the  sun 
Within  a  courtyard  gray. 

Out  came  the  daughter  of  the  king; 

Oh,  very  fair  was  she  ! 
She  was  the  whitest  bough  a-grow, 

So  fair,  so  fair  was  she  ! 

The  singer  sang,  "My  love,"  he  sang, 
"  Is  like  a  white  plum  tree  ! " 

Then  silence  fell  on  house  and  court ; 
No  other  word  sang  he. 

23 


The  king's  daughter,  when  she  was  old, 

Sat  in  a  broidered  gown, 
And  spun  the  flax  from  her  fair  fields  — 

Oh,  it  was  sweet  in  town  ! 

Seven  plum  trees  stood  down  in  the  court, 
Each  one  was  white  as  milk ; 

The  king's  daughter  rose  softly  there, 
Rustling  her  broidered  silk. 

"  Oh,  set  the  wheel  away,  my  maids, 

And  sing  that  song  to  me 
The  singer  sang !  "  "  My  love,"  sang  they, 

"  Is  like  a  white  plum  tree !  " 


24 


SWEET  WEATHER 

blow  the  daffodils  on  slender  stalks, 
Small  keen  quick  flames  that  leap  up  in  the  mold, 
And  run  along  the  dripping  garden-walks  : 
Swallows  come  whirring  back  to  chimneys  old. 

Blown  by  the  wind,  the  pear-tree's  flakes  of  snow 

Lie  heaped  in  the  thick  grasses  of  the  lane ; 

And  all  the  sweetness  of  the  Long  Ago 

Sounds  in  that  song  the  thrush  sends  through  the  rain. 


25 


IN  JUNE 

With  a  Difference. 

HAMLET. 

\T7HO  saw  the  June  come?     Wel-a-day! 

My  neighbor's  bushes,  one  and  all, 
And  grew  white  after  God's  old  way, 
Behind  the  garden  wall. 

Who  saw  the  June  come?     Nay,  not  she, 
My  neighbor's  daughter,  slim  and  shy, 
Long  since  she  left  her  father's  house, 
Ere  yet  the  rose  was  nigh. 

Last  year,  last  year,  there  in  the  sun 
She  stood  and  smiled.     I  did  not  know 
Which  was  the  whitest  thing  in  June, 
She,  or  that  bush  a-grow. 

But  now ;  ah,  now  ;  yea,  now  'tis  plain  ! 
When  folk  be  dead,  how  wise  we  be  ! 
God's  boughs  were  black  beside  her  snow ; 
Ah,  now ;  yea,  now  I  see ! 

My  neighbor's  bushes  blow,  blow,  blow, 
And  blow  about  his  silent  door ! 
Ye  call  that  white  ?     Nay,  'tis  not  so  ; 
June  has  been  here  before. 

26 


Ye  cannot  mock  me,  blossoms  sweet ; 
I  know  too  well  your  looks  of  yore ; 
My  neighbor  knows  (yet  blow,  blow,  blow), 
June  has  been  here  before. 


27 


AFTER  THE  RAIN 

TARIFFING  the  hollyhocks  beneath  the  wall, 
*~*     Their  fires  half  quenched,  a  smouldering  red  ; 
A  shred  of  gold  upon  the  grasses  tall, 
A  butterfly  is  hanging  dead. 

A  sound  of  trickling  waters,  like  a  tune 
Set  to  sweet  words ;  a  wind  that  blows 

Wet  boughs  against  a  saffron  sky;  all  June 
Caught  in  the  breath  of  one  white  rose. 


28 


A  RHYME  OF  DEATH'S  INN 

A     RHYME  of  good  Death's  inn  ! 
-*  ^     My  love  came  to  that  door ; 
And  she  had  need  of  many  things, 
The  way  had  been  so  sore. 

My  love  she  lifted  up  her  head, 
"  And  is  there  room  ? "  said  she  ; 

44  There  was  no  room  in  Bethlehem's  inn 
For  Christ  who  died  for  me." 

But  said  the  keeper  of  the  inn, 

"  His  name  is  on  the  door." 
My  love  then  straightway  entered  there : 

She  hath  come  back  no  more. 


29 


THE  DEATH  POTION 
[IN  ITALY,  15—] 

drop  of  this,  and  she  will  not  know 
If  she  be  foul  or  fair ; 
One  drop,  and  I  may  bind  him  again 
With  a  thread  of  my  golden  hair. 
(Hear,  Lord  Jesus  !  ) 

I  would  that  those  folk  across  the  street, 

In  old  St.  Simon's  there, 
Would  hush  their  noise  :  for  they  sing  so  sweet 

They  make  this  rare  drop  seem  less  rare. 
(Hear,  Lord  Jesus  !  ) 

It  is  May ;  my  plum  trees  five 

Down  in  the  court  below 
Look  like  five  little  chorister  boys 

Tiptoe  to  chant,  so  white  they  blow. 
(Hear,  Lord  Jesus  !  ) 

And  a  butterfly  like  a  violet 

Flits  through  the  sun  and  lights  on  the  sill 
Close  to  my  hand.     Are  the  bees  about, 

Or  is  it  the  wind  comes  down  the  hill  ? 
(Hear,  Lord  Jesus  ! ) 

30 


But  what  have  7  to  do  with  the  May, 

Or  any  other  weather  ? 
Or  with  five  white  plum  trees?     Hate  and  I, 

And  I  and  Hell,  be  yoked  together. 
(Hear,  Lord  Jesus  !  ) 

(One  drop  is  sure  to  kill.)     When  she  dies, 
They  will  put  the  cross  on  her  breast, 

And  get  the  golden  candlesticks  out 

For  her  head  and  feet,  and  call  her  blest. 
(Hear,  Lord  Jesus  ! ) 

But  she  is  a  thief  !    Do  ye  hear  me  in  Heaven  ? 

Her  soul  shall  not  come  in 
To  those  white  souls.     She  is  pitch,  not  snow. 

Saint  Simon,  Saint  Simon,  is  Theft  not  sin  ? 
(Hear,  Lord  Jesus  !  ) 

For  he  was  mine,  and  I  was  his ; 

(Hear,  Lord  Jesus  !  ) 
Though  we  had  shame,  yet  had  we  bliss. 

(Hear,  Lord  Jesus  !  ) 

I  fell,  but  for  love,  love,  love  ; 

And  for  love,  love,  love,  I  swear ! 
I,  for  this  man  and  my  love, 

Would  have  wiped  his  feet  with  my  hair ! 
(Hear,  Lord  Jesus  ! ) 

31 


This  robber  came  ;  she  lay  in  wait ; 

She  sprang  upon  him  unaware ; 
He  thinks  to  wed  her  with  a  ring 

To-morrow  in  St.  Simon's  there. 
(Hear,  Lord  Jesus  I ) 

One  drop  ?     And  she  shall  have  it  then 
In  a  sup  of  her  lover's  wine ; 

So  —  old  things  will  come  back  again, 
And  I  be  his,  and  he  be  mine  ! 
(Hear,  Lord  Jesus  ! ) 


32 


BLACKBERRY  BLOSSOMS 

ONG  sunny  lane  and  pike,  white,  delicate, 
-*--'     The  blackberry  blossoms  are  ablow,  ablow, 
Hiding  the  rough-hewn  rails  'neath  drift  of  snow, 
Fresh-fallen,  late.     The  opening  pasture  gate 
Brushes  a  hundred  of  them  loose,  and  shakes 
Them  down  into  the  tall  delicious  grass : 
Sometimes  a  little  sudden  wind  doth  pass, 
And  all  the  air  is  full  of  flying  flakes. 
It  seems  but  yesterday  they  blew  as  sweet 
Down  old  school  ways,  and  thrilled  me  with  delight ; 
And  reaching  out  for  them,  I  heard  the  fleet, 
Glad  creek  go  spinning  o'er  its  pebbles  bright. 
Ah,  well !    Ah,  me  !     Even  now,  long  as  they  last, 
I  am  a  child  again ;  Joy  holds  me  fast. 


33 


SUNSET 

IN  the  clear  dusk  upon  the  fields  below, 
The   blossoming   thorn-bush,    white,    and 

spare,  and  tall, 

Seems  carved  of  ivory  'gainst  the  dark  wall : 
Shut  from  the  sunset  sharp  the  farm-roofs  show. 
But  here  upon  this  height,  the  straggling  hedge 
Burns  in  the  wind,  and  is  astir  with  bees ; 
The  little  pool  beneath  the  willow  trees, 
Yellow  as  topaz  flames  from  edge  to  edge ; 
A  line  of  light  the  deserted  highway  glows. 
Odors  like  sounds  down  the  rich  air  do  pass, 
Spice  from  each  bough,  musk  from  the  brier  rose 
Dropping  its  five  sweet  petals  on  the  grass. 
Swallows  are  whirring  black  against  the  blaze ; 
I  hear  the  creek  laugh  out  from  pebbly  ways. 


34 


THE  DEAD  SHIP 
A  KELTIC  LEGEND 

~^HE  ship  came  sailing,  sailing, 

Into  our  old  town  — 

My  love  combed  out  her  golden  hair 

It  fell  to  the  hem  of  her  gown. 

Oh,  my  heart,  break  ! 

No  master  and  no  crew  was  hers, 
A  ship  of  the  dead  was  she, 

And  sailing,  sailing,  sailing  — 
The  folk  ran  out  to  see. 
Oh,  my  heart,  break  ! 

And  first  they  said  nor  yea,  nor  nay ; 

Then  some  began  to  weep ; 
And  some  did  count  their  little  lads, 

As  a  shepherd  counts  his  sheep. 
Oh,  my  heart,  break  ! 

Oh,  sailing,  sailing,  sailing  — 

"  Whom  will  it  be  ?  "  said  they ; 

"  She  never  sails  to  this  our  town 
But  one  doth  go  away/' 
Oh,  my  heart,  break  ! 

35 


"Yea,  one  will  go  from  this  our  town 

And  come  back  nevermore  ; 
Whate'er  His  will,  Lord  God  is  good ;  " 

Thus  I  at  my  love's  door. 
Oh,  my  heart,  break  ! 

Thereat  I  turned  into  the  house 
And  climbed  up  my  love's  stair, 

And  called  her  softly  —  through  the  dusk 
I  saw  her  golden  hair. 

Oh,  my  heart,  break  ! 

Who  went  away  from  our  old  town 

And  came  back  nevermore? 
It  was  my  love ;  she  lay  there  dead 

Upon  the  chamber  floor. 
Oh,  my  heart,  break  ! 


36 


A  RHYME  FOR  JUNE 


marshy  pools  on  the  road's  edge, 
Or  creeks  that  slip  'twixt  banks  of  sedge, 
With  marigolds  be  set  aflare  ; 
And  not  a  corner  south  or  north, 
But  there  a  brier-rose  breaks  forth, 
And  bees  go  droning  down  the  air. 

The  bramble  now  begins  to  blow, 
The  elder-bush  puts  on  its  snow, 
And  birds  be  sweet  till  fall  of  dew; 
And  when  my  love  and  I  go  out, 
So  thick  the  grass  grows  all  about  — 
In  truth,  it  scarce  will  let  us  through. 


37 


AUGUST 

wind,  no  bird.     The  river  flames  like  brass. 

On  either  side,  smitten  as  with  a  spell 
Of  silence,  brood  the  fields.     In  the  deep  grass, 
Edging  the  dusty  roads,  lie  as  they  fell 
Handfuls  of  shriveled  leaves  from  tree  and  bush. 
But  'long  the  orchard  fence  and  at  the  gate, 
Thrusting  their  saffron  torches  through  the  hush, 
Wild  lilies  blaze,  and  bees  hum  soon  and  late. 
Rust-colored  the  tall  straggling  brier,  not  one 
Rose  left.     The  spider  sets  its  loom  up  there 
Close  to  the  roots,  and  spins  out  in  the  sun 
A  silken  web  from  twig  to  twig.     The  air 
Is  full  of  hot  rank  scents.     Upon  the  hill 
Drifts  the  noon's  single  cloud,  white,  glaring,  still. 


38 


EARLY  SEPTEMBER 

"^HE  swallows  have  not  left  us  yet,  praise  God  ! 
-*•      And  bees  still  hum,  and  gardens  hold  the  musk 
Of  white  rose  and  of  red  ;  firing  the  dusk 
By  the  old  wall,  the  hollyhocks  do  nod, 
And  pinks  that  send  the  sweet  East  down  the  wind. 
And  yet,  a  yellowing  leaf  shows  here  and  there 
Among  the  boughs,  and  through  the  smoky  air  — 
That  hints  the  frost  at  dawn  — the  wood  looks  thinned. 
The  little  half-grown  sumachs,  all  as  green 
As  June  last  week,  now  in  the  crackling  sedge, 
Colored  like  wine  burn  to  the  water's  edge. 
We  feel,  at  times,  as  we  had  come  unseen 
Upon  the  aging  Year,  sitting  apart, 
Grief  in  his  eyes,  some  ache  at  his  great  heart. 


39 


A  NOVEMBER  AFTERNOON 


"^HE  long  and  sad  week's  wind,  like  any  child, 
•*•       Has  sobbed  itself  to  sleep.   This  morning's  rai 
Has  strewn  the  stairway  with  the  petals  wild, 
Red,  ragged,  of  my  sweet  last  rose.     The  lane 
Shows  me  the  poplar  tree,  blackened  and  bare, 
Clasped  to  its  heart  a  dangling  empty  nest. 
A  few  dull  yellow  leaves  stir  here  and  there, 
And  all  the  air  is  clear  from  east  to  west. 
The  year,  I  think,  lies  dreaming  of  the  May, 
As  old  men  dream  of  youth,  that  loved  lost  thing. 
A  spring-like  thrill  is  in  this  weather  gray. 
I  wait  to  hear  some  thrush  begin  to  sing  ; 
And  half  expect,  as  up  and  down  I  go, 
To  see  my  neighbor's  cherry-boughs  ablow  ! 


40 


THE  FIRST  SNOW 

I  ^HE  dogwood  has  its  bloom  again; 
Each  blade  of  grass  out  in  the  lane 

A  little  scentless  bud  doth  bear; 
The  shriveled  shrubs  to  left  and  right 
Let  loose  a  myriad  petals  light 

To  every  breath  that  stirs  the  air. 

Still  as  in  June  its  briers  beneath 

The  meadow  brook  shows  its  white  teeth. 

Remembering  June,  the  wild  rose-bush 
Holds  still  a  berry  here  and  there, 
Setting  the  blackened  twigs  aflare 

With  scarlet  in  the  frosty  hush. 

Long  are  the  hours  from  dusk  to  dawn ; 
From  dawn  to  dusk  —  ah,  too  soon  gone  ! 

Lo,  when  the  brief  day  sinks  to  rest, 
Then  bough  by  bough,  like  bone  by  bone, 
The  naked  trees  stand  out  alone 

Against  the  keen  gold  of  the  west ! 


41 


TO  HER  SWEET  EYES 

SWEET  eyes,  sweet  eyes,  that  now  be  in  the  dust, 
When  you  I  had,  the  May  was  May  in  truth  ! 
The  round  world  wore  its  white  as  youth  did  youth, 
Sweet  eyes,  sweet  eyes,  that  now  be  in  the  dust ! 
Of  its  old  music  is  the  wind's  throat  bare ; 
June  is  not  June ;  the  rose  hath  lost  its  red, 
The  pink  its  spice ;  the  hollyhock  is  dead ; 
There  are  no  lilies  blowing  anywhere  — 
And  yet,  I  came  upon  a  grave  to-day, 
By  a  church  door,  and  there  a  thorn-bush  stood, 
Astir  with  bees,  abrim  with  blossoms  gay, 
The  one  fair  thing  of  field  and  hedge  and  wood. 
You  lay  beneath,  sweet  eyes,  sweet  eyes  and  true, 
And  it  was  fair  because,  because  of  you  ! 


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